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Sunday, December 26, 2010

Beijing, Tibet 1995: Remarkable Peaces Of Silence

My friends invite me to share a traditional Tibetan meal 
under the stars and moon during autumn nighttime.
We share the seasonal moment when the smell, 
held in the earth from summer creations, 
releases into winter’s care.
We celebrate the city’s communal life cycles.
We drink, eat, toast and bring cheer 
to each other’s health and good character -
until we run out of breath, songs to sing,
and anticipate that our health will collapse
from the fun of entertaining each other.

The men drink too much only to keep up with me,
and I drink too much only to keep up with the men,
no one wanting to be indecorous or culturally underperformed.
We can stop after the fifth drink without any shame,
if we are not so pleasingly polite and traditionally correct.
The unexpected benefit of drinking so much Tibetan moonshine
is that it has sterilized the damp heat 
and evaporated the water right out of my body.
Tibetan wine kills more germs than any pill prescribed
by the doctors at the hospital in Shanghai,
who attempted to cure my work weary, 
spiritual pollution induced pneumonia.

I think our singing, especially all the high vibrational notes,
undoubtedly contributes a harmonic exorcism -
to flux cure and route out the infection from my lungs.
My lymphatic system relaxes as my nervous system irrigates my colon -
my liver, gall bladder and kidneys release ancient patterns of anger.
My smile widens as my friends recount stories.
I laugh at their intentional doctoring of me via the effect of their wine and song.

The laughter and song in the yurt warms our circle of bodies -
we rise up a few degrees in temperature to heat our heart centers, 
as we ascend our earthly demeanor to integrate our Soul's power -
we sing to clear the channels that carry our Soul into our lower body.

My face begins to thaw -
humming my ears into an acoustic ring of surround sound.
The peace of the extreme chill reverberates
my very personal experience of cold,
and as I sit on the grounded woolen seat,
I feel every body part of me slow 
and trickle surreal my every moment of movement.

My nose drips little warm droplets.
Fluids arrive from somewhere in my body in a rush to escape,
to effect an exit via my sinoatrial node -
then my nose muscles and fluids orbit before becoming still 
to freeze into icicles at my nose tip’s end.
The penetration of the far below-zero freeze reminds me
of my Canadian childhood -
a cold that leisurely cuts and fragments
my breath into remarkable peaces of silence.


~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Sometime after 1953 Ma Jian wrote;
“… a road she walked, 
a road which would wake her from her sleep, 
was one she’d often walked halfway down before.”